Calling his Bluff
by samaryley
Summary: Tim finds out about Dally's death. Rated T for lots of language. One-shot.


Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I couldn't fucking believe the words coming out of Buck Merrill's goddamned mouth. There was no fucking way Dallas Winston was dead. The kid didn't even fucking know how to die. There were only two people on this side of town who were tougher than shit, and that was Dallas and me. And there was no fucking way someone could take Dallas out, because that meant someone could take me out.

And I was fucking untouchable.

I wanted to punch Buck, to knock his goddamn head against the wall so hard that his skull came out his forehead, because what he was feeding me had to be nothing but an absolute lie, but that wasn't how I operated. Nobody got to see me lose my cool. Nobody. Sure as hell not some loser barmaid like Buck. So I took everything I was feeling, the anger I felt at Dally for getting his dumb ass killed and at Buck for telling me about it, and I packaged it up into a tidy little box, and I tucked it away, neatly, back in the corner of my mind between the boxes labeled "asses to kick" and "wrongs to right." And I told Buck to pull me a goddamned draft and prepared to tell him to get to the fucking point and tell me what the hell happened. For Christ's sake, it had been only four hours ago that Dally and I were shoulder to shoulder knocking some sense into those shithead Socs. How the hell do you go from a red-blooded, live, ass-kicking hood to stone-cold dead in four hours, that's what I wanted to know.

"How'd it happen?" I asked Buck, the instant he sat the beer in front of me.

"Cops," he said. I downed half the pint in the second it took him to mouth the word.

"There's no fucking way," I said. "The cops fucking loved him." That was the honest–to-God truth. Dallas Winston was like free entertainment to the cops in this town. He'd get caught pulling one of the many dumbass stunts he was always up to, the cops would haul him in, he'd shoot off his goddamned mouth at them, they'd lock him up, and in a few days he was back on the streets, up to his usual antics. The cops had no need to kill him. He was their fucking man-whore. He kept them busy; they kept up his reputation as a tough guy. His record was like his fucking resume, his ticket to respect in our neighborhood. It was a win-win relationship. There was no way the cops would have been gunning for him. There had to be more to it.

Who the fuck told you this?" I asked. Clearly Buck hadn't been there. I had come in right after the rumble; since then I had been nursing a few in the corner booth, inching my way into restricted territory with a drunk waitress I recognized from the diner downtown, when Buck called me over with this newsflash. He had been behind the bar since before I even came in. I looked around to see who would have come in with the news. Winston didn't have a real gang; he just hung around with a bunch of misfits from the North Side of town, but I knew who his friends were. I looked around and finally found one of his gang, Mathews, over by the other end of the bar working on clearly what was not his first beer of the night and wouldn't be his last. This kid was known for being a wise-ass, but it was clear from looking at him that he had nothing witty to say at the moment. Any doubt I had about what Buck said had happened being true was erased when I looked in that kid's eyes. He was a fucking mess.

I drank what was left of my beer and made my way through the crowd, not really giving a shit whose beer I spilled or whose feet I stepped on. Anybody wanted to fuck with me right now, they were taking their goddamned life in their hands tonight.

I grabbed the Mathews kid by the shoulder and he spun around, a look resembling fear on his face. I felt something like satisfaction. That's right, I thought, you'd better be afraid. I'm what's left to be afraid of around here. When he saw it was me his expression changed to recognition and it pissed me off.

"Come with me," I said, and I dragged him with me upstairs, into the room I had for the night, where I'd been hoping for a little post-rumble action with the aforementioned waitress.

"What the fuck, Shepard?" he yelled, hitting me on the forearm and breaking my grip on his wrist. "Get your fucking hands off me." I was surprised at his strength, considering his current state. I shoved him backward.

"What the hell happened with Dallas?"" I said to him as he staggered into the room. I wasn't gonna give this kid the satisfaction of hearing me yell.

"He's dead. He's fucking dead, Tim. Just like he wanted."

"Why? The cops would never shoot him."

"They anted up and he called their bluff. Turns out he was bluffing but they weren't. He pulled a heater on 'em. Wasn't even loaded. He wanted it, Tim." Mathews looked me in the eyes, one drunk to another, and I knew he was telling the truth.

Now I wanted to beat this poor drunk kid senseless too. Dally wanted to die? Are you fucking kidding me? There was nothing in the world Dallas Winston wanted besides a good lay and his reputation. Then there was that piss-ant little runt from his neighborhood he was always looking out for…

"What about his little sidekick? Dallas wouldn't fucking die on him, his little fucking groupie." Last I knew he was in the hospital with Dallas, for some dumb-ass hero stunt they pulled out in the country. God only knows what the hell Winston saw in that pathetic kid anyway.

I didn't anticipate Mathews' reaction. He shoved me against the wall, looking like he wanted to take me to task.

"Shut up, Shepard. He fuckin' died, from the fire."

Oh, Christ, figures. That's what set off Dallas, then. His pathetic little sidekick bought the fucking farm. So that was it, right there, what made Dallas Winston fallible. Because he had the goddamn lack of common sense to give a shit about somebody else. And when that kid died, Dallas lost his shit. He shoulda known better than to care. I thought he did know better.

Well I was never gonna be that fucking stupid, that's for sure. I even had real family: a real live sister and brother. I was more than ready to wring the life out of anybody for roughing up Curly or Angel, but if you think I was gonna fucking die for their honor you've got another thing coming. I'd live on, to avenge their death and more, but nobody's gonna get the best of me because I'm pissed off about somebody else dying. That's the way it is on this side of town; we're all out for ourselves here. Fuck.

Mathews was still there, sitting on the bed now, drunk as all get-out.

I kicked him and he looked up.

"Get the fuck out," I said. He was gone within seconds.

I sat down on the bed. I shoulda been up here with that busty waitress, taking full advantage of her assets. Instead I was sitting here hating Dallas Winston for dying. Mourning? No fucking way. There was no way I was mourning that bastard. I was hating his guts.

He had spent the entire previous week in the room across the hall. He couldn't always afford a room at Bucks, but a combination of a good weekend at the rodeo and a jail-free week had afforded him the benefits of a bed and bath for a full week.

I remembered that kid and the other one, that littlest Curtis brother coming to see Dally the weekend prior. Fucking shits, I had thought, seeing Dally herd them through the crowd up top his room. Neither of them belonged anywhere near a place like Buck's. A few minutes later they came down and he ushered them out the door. Then that night, in the park, the shit had hit the fan for those little kids.

That's when it hit me.

It was my fucking gun.

That's when it disappeared. That night. That little runt and the Curtis kid came in… I'd been downstairs the whole time then I'd gone up and had my fun with the flavor of the night. The next day the gun was missing.

Fucking Winston.

Fuck. He stole my goddamn gun, and used it to get his ass shot. Suicide by cops.

Now I was really pissed. I ran across the hall and kicked in the door. Dally's door. Just a few days prior, the night before he ended up in the hospital for that fire business, he had winked obnoxiously at me as he escorted my date from the previous night into his room.

But that's how it was. We just took turns pissing each other off.

And it had been his turn, that night, to piss me off. And now he was dead. How the hell was I supposed to counteract that? And it was my own fucking gun that he had bluffed with, to the cops, there was no doubt in my mind. My fucking .38. Unloaded, Mathews said. Fuck. He never even had any ammunition for it. I kept it locked up in the trunk of my car. It was all one big goddamn bluff.

I looked around the room, in case there was anything worth taking. But there was nothing. A few shirts, a pair of jeans. I pocketed a few bucks out of the jeans and threw them down, kicking them across the floor. I grabbed the pack of smokes off the dresser and lit one. I sat down on the bed and closed my eyes. I wasn't ready yet, to open up that box of anger that I had tucked away for later. But I could feel it, sitting there. Waiting.

I felt tension fill my body, and I knew that, against my will, Dallas Winston was gonna occupy my thoughts all fucking night.

Goddamn you, Dally, for dying, and making me fucking live with it.

________________________

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing! Just decided to write a non-Curtis for a change...**


End file.
